ROB. H. O God!
He in his own hand holds his own heart's hurt:
I dreaded, too, much his distressed look.
Belike the wretch despair'd, and slew himself.
DON. Nay. that's most sure: yet he had little reason,
Considering how well you used him.
ROB. H. Well, I am sorry, but must not be sad,
Because the king is coming to my bower.
Help me, I pray thee, to remove his body,
Lest he should come and see him murdered.
Some time anon he shall be buried.
[Exeunt ROBIN HOOD and SIR DONCASTER with the body.[268]
PRIOR. Good! all is good! this is as I desire:
Now for a face of pure hypocrisy.
Sweet murder, clothe thee in religious weeds,
Reign in my bosom, that with help of thee
I may effect this Robin's tragedy.
Enter ROBIN HOOD and SIR DONCASTER.
DON. Nay, nay, you must not take this thing so heavily.
ROB. H. A body's loss, Sir Doncaster, is much;
But a soul's too is more to be bemoan'd.
PRIOR. Truly I wonder at your virtuous mind.
O God, to one so kind who'd be unkind!
Let go this grief: now must you put on joy,
And for the many favours I have found,
So much exceeding all conceit of mine,
Unto your cheer I'll add a precious drink,
Of colour rich and red, sent me from Rome,
There's in it moly,[269] Syrian balsamum,
Gold's rich elixir; O, 'tis precious!
ROB. H. Where is it, uncle?